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Polar Explorer RPF - Prompt Post 1
This is for prompts for all things general Polar Explorer RPF.
If you've filled (or started filling) a prompt, please make sure to link it in the comments of the Fills Post. And if you would like to cross-post your fills on AO3, here is the collection!
Under this umbrella you can prompt:
Prompts in line with adaptations of Heroic Age stories can also fit here, for example if you want to specifically prompt Hugh Grant!Cherry from The Last Place On Earth getting wrecked (which someone really should).
No blorbo too obscure for this post! EXCEPT: NO PEARY ALLOWED. God I hate that guy.
Rules:
Regular view: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html
Regular view, last page: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?page=999#comments
If you've filled (or started filling) a prompt, please make sure to link it in the comments of the Fills Post. And if you would like to cross-post your fills on AO3, here is the collection!
Under this umbrella you can prompt:
- Historical versions of Franklin Expedition(-adjacent) guys (Rossier, Gore/McClure, etc)
- Madhouse at the End of the Earth/Belgica Expedition
- Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration - Shackleton, Scott, Amundsen, Mawson
- Andrée Expedition
- Karluk Expedition
- etc
Prompts in line with adaptations of Heroic Age stories can also fit here, for example if you want to specifically prompt Hugh Grant!Cherry from The Last Place On Earth getting wrecked (which someone really should).
No blorbo too obscure for this post! EXCEPT: NO PEARY ALLOWED. God I hate that guy.
Rules:
1. Be fucking nice. YKINMATO/KINKTOMATO at all times.
2. This meme is CNTW (Choose Not To Warn) but warnings are highly encouraged.
3. Prompts should use this format in the subject line: [SHIP], [DESCRIPTION]
e.g.
Mertz/Ninnis, sex crying
Solo gen can be prompted as well alongside (a) character name and description
e.g.
Gen, Emil Racovitza, discovering a crazy new fish
4. Fills should use this format in the subject line: FILL: [TITLE], [PAIRING], [RATING], [ANY WARNINGS]
e.g.
Fill: The Very Next Day, Cherry/Birdie, E, cw self-harm
5. One prompt per comment please.
6. Multiple fills for each prompt are welcome!
7. You don't have to be anon for your prompts or your fills but we do encourage it because of the vibe. You're also welcome to deanon your stuff by posting on AO3/Tumblr as you please!
8. Feedback on prompts and fills is AWESOME; please take longer conversations to the discussion post.
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Fill: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E eventually, Part 2/3
(Anonymous) 2023-01-06 04:40 am (UTC)(link)They’d met on the set of National Geographic’s My Life as an Explorer with Roald Amundsen. The title had made Roald cringe, and he’d told Fred so, the day they’d met. Fred had always been interested in stories about explorers and mountaineers and the like, Scott and Shackleton and Mallory and all those folks, and he’d read through stacks and stacks of old expedition accounts as a way to de-stress during med school. So when he’d seen a notice on a mailing list he was on, looking for an on-set doctor for a new National Geographic Channel adventure show, he’d eagerly applied. That’s how he’d come face to face with the Internet famous Roald Amundsen.
Reluctantly famous was more accurate. Roald had a real taste for adventure, and unlike a lot of TV and YouTube survivalists, he knew what he was doing. He’d lived with Indigenous communities all over the world and learned different techniques for foraging, for making clothing, for starting fires with different materials and navigating by the stars and ocean waves. He didn’t do it in a weird, creepy, white-savior-on-Instagram kind of way, but because he was genuinely curious and admired people who could be adaptable and still knew important old traditions, even after centuries of colonialism. (“There was an anthropologist who called it ‘deep hanging out,’ he’d once told Fred, cracking a grin. “That’s what I like to do.”) He’d taught himself how to get around in the wilderness without GPS or a tent, how to snare small animals and find water. He loved travel, adventure, and doing whatever he wanted. But when he was younger his brother Leon, bless his heart, had convinced him that in the twenty-first century even someone who could live off the land still needed some cash, if only for gear and plane tickets and a place to keep all of his stuff when he wasn’t traveling - and no, Leon would not lend him any more money. So Leon had convinced him to start a YouTube channel (“If Andrew Skurka can make videos, why can’t you?”) which had blown up, which had led him to Gerald Christy and the National Geographic gig.
Roald (“Yes, like Roald Dahl. No, it’s pronounced like Ru-ald, not rolled,” as he was always reminding the PAs) hadn’t liked vamping it up for the camera, but he’d gamely gone along since it allowed him to do the things he genuinely enjoyed and share his knowledge. He was always most comfortable if he could teach a genuinely interested pupil, and that’s where their relationship had blossomed. They talked for hours about wilderness medicine – Fred had made sure to get his NOLS certification before he started the job – and different diets and how to filter water without iodine or chlorine dioxide. Most of all they loved talking about the old polar explorers of the heroic age, nerding out for hours, Roald sharing all of his well-worn notebooks where he’d scribbled advice he’d picked up from reading about the men he so admired. They’d talked and they’d kissed and they’d fucked, and they’d improvised some questionable substitutes for lube from what nature and their provision sacks had to offer. In the Amazon they’d stopped mid-fuck so Roald could pull a tarantula off of his back, and in the Gobi desert Roald had blown him in the ruins of an ancient traders’ warehouse, and while filming that Svalbard episode Roald had defended him from that polar bear attack with such smooth and effortless poise that Fred had been half-hard even as he saw his life flash before his eyes. And through it all, they’d opened up to each other. But only halfway. It had been clear from the start that Fred wanted the limelight, enjoyed the energy of being part of a TV production, enjoyed the speculative conversations with the show’s director, Adrien, about maybe launching his own reality show. (“Maybe something medical. Or about food! You can eat penguins on screen!” he cried, twirling his mustache.) Roald just wanted to collect his paychecks and go back to planning his own adventures. Fred should have known it would be too good to last.
Fred paused to brush falling snow off of his face. Thank god he’d pilfered this jacket and waterproof pants (“Helly Hansen - one of the best!” Roald had said) from the set of the show. True to the driver’s instructions, there was a trailhead at the side of the road, though it had no blazes and was so narrow that it was near-impossible to pick out in places. The snow was deep and getting deeper, but underneath the freshly-fallen powder it was packed hard, and walking hadn’t been too bad, even with the heavy duffle worn like a backpack. Fred had walked on it until he came to a clearing, where, off in the distance, he did indeed see a group of three small mountains in a row. When he was descending the last one he came across an old man in a thick woolen coat with a gigantic unleashed dog, plodding through the snow without a care in the world. A place where no one would believe that someone could live, indeed. The man spoke no English, but when Fred had shown him the note, he nodded in understanding and pointed with one hand, off to the northwest.
Now Fred had been plodding through pine forest again, and twilight was definitely upon him. He had some old Clif bars and a headlamp in his pack – again, thanks to the good folks at National Geographic – but he only had a few matches with him and a bivy sack, but no tent. Well, it wasn’t too windy. He could find a hollow among some tree roots, maybe, and settle in. He’d be fine for at least one night. Thanks, Roald, for that.
He stopped and turned in a circle, trying to get a read on his surroundings. And then - no. But yes. He smelled it. It was definitely smoke. Woodsmoke. He inhaled a few times and kept walking, trying to follow the direction of the scent. He’d only walked for a few minutes when he saw it - a little log house, perched high on stilts. A food cache, protected from curious animals. And a few hundred yards beyond that, a gigantic woodshed, piled high with logs drying under a sloped roof. And then…
Blå. Blue. A small cabin, slats painted cobalt blue, smoke puffing steadily out of a metal chimney.
Found you, you sly dog. Fred hurried to the door and knocked. He heard shuffling inside, and then the door slowly creaked open. He stepped back, and for the first time all day, the first time since he’d left New York with the feds on his heels, he felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest.
Roald stood in the doorway, the light from inside the cabin silhouetting him in hard contrast to the gathering darkness outside. He wore a heavy black wool sweater and vintage-looking wool serge pants in dark green, and knit slippers on his feet. He leaned on one side of the doorframe, arms crossed, and eyed Fred appraisingly, as if somehow he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see him. His mouth opened in a hint of a smile, and Fred caught a flash of his gold tooth. “Fred, my dear,” he drawled, totally unhurried. “Looks like you’ve had quite a journey.” God, why did that tooth do things to him? Roald looked as he always did, fit and strong and older than his years, but in that weathered, outdoorsy way that was unbelievably sexy. Christ, it was below freezing and Fred was getting hard, standing out here in front of his ex’s cabin in the freaking wilderness. Roald’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, his hand going towards Fred’s neck, and for a moment Fred thought he was going to kiss him. He breathed out, shallowly, and then Roald’s hand grazed his collar…
“Cotton?” Roald touched the collar of Fred’s henley where it peaked out from under the jacket. He recoiled as if disgusted. “What have I always told you about cotton? And where in god’s name is your midlayer?”
Fred groaned. Roald had not changed in the slightest. “Let me in, damnit,” he said, and pushed Roald inside.
To be continued…
And remember kids, cotton kills!
Re: Fill: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E eventually, Part 2/3
(Anonymous) 2023-01-06 05:45 am (UTC)(link)